


Once Upon A Dream

by MagpieMinx (CardinalFox)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Doctor Reader - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kylo Ren is Stubborn, Kylo Ren makes Bad Decisions, Self-Blame, Soft Dom!Kylo, Somewhere between Plot and No Plot Porn, Somnophilia, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardinalFox/pseuds/MagpieMinx
Summary: How You Slept with Kylo RenOrWhy You Probably Should Have Taken a Nap at Some PointOrGo To Sleep AKA I Love You





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disorderedorder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/gifts).



> For my lovely K, because Reasons™

“You need rest,” Kylo Ren says from the bed, and you shake your head, trying to refocus your blurring vision on the half-filled form on your datapad.

“You need to stay awake, so I can stay awake with you.  If need be, I can-” you start, pausing as your eyes flick upward to a closed cabinet door.  For whatever reason, you find yourself able to focus on that because the silver handle recessed into the surface is sharp and clear.  Maybe it’s because of the particular drug you have in mind stored there?  You don’t like using it yourself, not when someone else might need it more, but it’ll work and you’re running on less than an hour’s sleep out of forty-eight.  Even a half dose would be better than just the sheer force of your willpower.  

“No,” he says, and you stare at him, confused and even a little offended.  You’re his physician, though stars know why he stubbornly insists on you every damn time he ends up here.  You’re responsible for his health, you’re not going to break the promise you made him immediately after informing him that he had a concussion-  “You didn’t sleep last night.”

“How did you-” you start to ask, and then shake your head again and sigh at the realization that Commander Ren’s read your mind.   _ Again _ .  After you’ve explicitly asked him not to, although he’s never really respected  _ that _ request.  “You need to stop doing that.  There was an emergency and I was on call, it couldn’t be helped.”

“There’s no need for you to stay awake,” he insists, “I’m fine.”  He watches you intently with his dark eyes and you look back at him, refusing to give away the fact that he just turned into a two-toned smear across your reality.  

“You are  _ not _ fine,” you retort before your voice drops into disgruntled, if mild, confusion, “Although I guess I’m surprised you haven’t walked out on me yet considering the way you continue telling me that you are.”  You study him, squinting to prevent him from going out of focus again.  He doesn’t respond to this at all, and you huff quietly before turning back to your datapad.

“I could wake you if I need you,” he coaxes.  Hearing him sound so gentle and convincing does something strange to you, makes something in your chest catch for a second before it goes away.  Still, it’s a tempting thought, if he actually woke you up if he needed you.  Commander Ren is about a thousand times more likely to sneak out of the medbay while you’re unconscious, though you’re not entirely sure if it’s ‘sneaking’ if you’re so deeply asleep that nothing short of the Finalizer imploding would wake you up.  In any case, sleeping in chairs is uncomfortable and leaves awful kinks in your neck, shoulders and upper back-

“Not in the chair,” he clarifies, and you roll your eyes up toward the ceiling briefly, wondering whether you should point out  _ again _ that he shouldn’t be reading your mind all the time.  You sincerely doubt that it’s a battle that you would win, and possibly a war you’ve already lost, not an engagement worth taking given that you’re feeling like hell warmed over and slapped onto a piece of burnt toast.

“There’s nowhere else to sleep,” you respond flatly, hating him a little for introducing the possibility of sleep and now blatantly erasing it.  You suppose that you could try to squeeze onto the counter, but your feet would hang over the edge and you might roll off and then you’d give  _ yourself _ a concussion, which would be less than ideal.

Kylo Ren shifts over in his bed a little, gestures to the space he’s cleared with a hand and you feel your eyebrows arch toward your hairline.  “Commander, that would be highly inappropriate.”

“You could sleep and be close enough for me to wake you quickly when I need you,” he points out, and you hate him a little for putting it so logically.  You hate yourself more for considering it.  It’s not that the medbay beds are that comfortable, particularly not if they’re half-occupied by another person already,  _ definitely _ not if that person is as large as Kylo Ren is.

“That bed isn’t big enough for you  _ and _ me,” you say dismissively, shaking your head again and wondering how many times you’re going to have to resist the temptation to pass out and find a way to get Commander Ren to behave all at the same time.  The latter is hard enough at the best of times, although he somehow cooperates more often with you than the rest of the staff.

“You’re not that big.”

“You are.”

“There’s enough space.”

“Fine!” you groan, dropping your datapad onto the desk and flinging your hands into the air, “Fine, okay, I’m clearly too tired to win this argument.”  You brace your hands on the desk and push yourself to your feet before shedding your labcoat and tunic, dropping them unceremoniously onto the chair you were just sitting on.

Any other time, approaching Kylo Ren in a bed would be intimidating, but right now all you can see is the narrow slot of white sheet next to him and the pillow he isn’t using.  It helps that he’s not bleeding or snarling the way he normally is.  It’s honestly some kind of miracle that he came to the medbay for his concussion at all in your private opinion as you sit on the edge of the bed to unzip and pull off your boots.  First one and then the other hit the floor and then you’re stretching out on the edge of the mattress, careful not to bump into Commander Ren.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” you mumble as you go to lay your head on the pillow, and then you’re out.

~

You’re dreaming, you’re sure of it because your bed is a cold, narrow shelf.  This bed is narrow too, but it’s warm, hot even, and crowded with the chest, shoulders, and hips of another person.  You debate whether or not you wants to shift away from the body, but the hazy certainty of the dream makes you not bother with the effort.  You press yourself closer to the heat curving around your back to put another inch between you and the edge of the mattress, relaxing into the luxury of having a bedmate.

A long, heavy arm drapes itself over your waist and your hip and yes, that is ideal, absolutely perfect.  There’s a security in the hold of that arm, something in it’s thickness and gentleness that gives you confidence in strength you know nothing about.  You do know, however, that with this arm, there will be no falling off the mattress, no falling out of bed.  You’ll be safe.

You nudge yourself still closer to the man at your back (and it is a man, judging by the flat planes of his torso against your shoulder blades), become aware of something pressing against your ass.  It takes you longer than it really should to understand what it is, but then you’re confused as to whether you should do anything about it.  The man’s in your bed, isn’t he?  How long has it been since you allowed yourself the comfort of sex?

But an arm draped over your waist is not an indication of wakefulness, and you sigh as you roll until your stomach is pressed against the mattress beneath you, your cheek against the corner of the pillow.  You want it, have gone so long without it that the thought of being pinned gently against the mattress and loved in the dark for a fleeting hour fills you with longing.  You clench around nothing, shifts your legs to cross one ankle over the other, prepare to content yourself with just the heat of a body beside you.  It will have to be enough.

With strangely perfect timing, the arm tugs you a little closer, the body at your back shifting until it’s carefully laid atop you.  Your breath catches, and then fingers brush down your forearm and a pair of lips are pressed to the nape of your neck.  You melt, laughing internally at how perfectly your dream is responding to what you want, the things you dare to dream of when you’re laying awake in your bed, alone, and then the hand slides under you to work your shirt from the waistband of your trousers.

Why are you wearing your uniform undershirt?  You’re confused again, lifts your cheek from your pillow as the nimble fingers tug a fold free, and then another, and you feels like you’re forgetting something.  More fabric comes free, and then the hand slides inside your shirt and into your bra to cup your breast.  Your nipple is trapped between thumb and forefinger, pressed and rolled, and whatever you’ve forgotten must not matter because you still haven’t remembered it.  You give herself over to the hand in your shirt, the erection against your ass, close your eyes and surrenders to the soothing surety of physicality.  You’ll have something pleasant to remember when you wake at least.

The man’s hips roll against your ass, and you press back against him.  He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a purr, a low rumble of contentment that passes directly from his body to yours.  The vibration thrums through your sensitized skin and you release a long exhale that’s almost a moan, but not quite.  The hand abandons your breast, slides up your chest to your collarbone, thumb dipping briefly into the notch there at the base of your throat before the strap is pulled aside.  Lips meet the side of your neck and you press your temple against the pillow to expose more of your throat to him.  He kisses a soft trail along the tendon to your jaw, nosing at your ear as his hot breath fans over your skin.

The dream is already hazy enough, now you feel almost drunk on the pleasure of skin-to-skin contact.  You squirm, pressing your thighs together, and the man atop you pauses, stroking your clavicle with two delicate fingertips while he considers.  You brace your knees on the mattress, lift your hips to press his length in the cleft of your ass, pleading silently.  You want it, want him, doesn’t he know that?  Haven’t you surrendered to him, lain pliant under him while he touched you?  Isn’t this what he wants anyway?  Why hasn’t his hand gone below your belt yet?

A low chuckle rolls out of the dark and directly into your ear.  There’s something about the sound that makes you feel the emptiness between your legs, and your muscles contract twice before you can control yourself.  You shiver, let a whimper slip between your teeth, and the man presses a kiss to your jaw as his hand runs down your body to the waistband of your uniform pants.  He unbuttons them deftly, pushes the zipper down and then dips inside the thick, heavy fabric.  The air is cool on your skin, his fingers hot as they slide under the elastic of your panties and go directly for your core.

His fingers part the folds and you shudder, moaning quietly into the pillow when his fingertips slip on your slickness.  He pauses as if surprised, and you shift silently, wanting him to continue, to not stop.  He responds immediately, presses two fingers into you and you gasp and pant against the corner of the pillow.  You don’t want to, can’t, think about how long it’s been since you’ve had someone else’s hand touch you so intimately.  His fingers curl against your walls, and it’s so good, too good, this not knowing exactly how he’s going to touch you.  If you were on your back, you would spread for him, could turn over and do it now, but you doesn’t want to lose this closeness, desperately want to feel his weight holding you down.

“Another time,” he murmurs in your ear, and his voice is still somewhere between growl and purr, like silk and gravel.  His fingers withdraw, stroke, slip inside you again and curl against that same spot and breathing is about all you can manage as you let sensation pull you under.  You’re barely aware of the mattress beneath you as your fingers try and fail to find purchase on the fitted sheet.  It’s crisp and tight against the mattress, and there’s something disturbingly familiar about that-

He withdraws his hand from your panties and you whine outright.  He shushes your, moving above you as he lifts himself from your body.  You almost bolt upright, ready to beg for him, but his hand wraps around your shoulder with his wet fingers and presses you gently back to the mattress before you’ve gotten more than an inch off it.  You relent, unsure of why he’s withdrawing, and he chuckles again as he deliberately places a knee between your thighs.  You crane your neck, trying to see his face in the dark, and there’s a glow from the displays around faintly limning his features-

Where are you?  You makes a soft sound of confusion in your throat as your attention shifts, trying to make sense of the surrealism of the dream and your surroundings.  It looks like a clinic, like one of the exam rooms near your office, but that can’t be right, why would you be there?

The hand is on your waist, sliding down to your hip, pushing your pants and panties down over the curve of your backside.  The man kisses your jaw again, blazes a new trail to your mouth and you’re caught up in him again.  He kisses your carefully, and you don’t want careful, want more, want everything he’s willing to give, and the pressure of his lips against yours increases.  The kiss is heavy, hot, delivered with an open mouth and you respond in kind, but still there is a line that he does not cross.  He wants intensity tempered with tenderness, and you welcome it, surrender to it.  It’s a different kind of surrender from before, and you would love to figure out how control can be given up in so many ways, but he’s pulled away from you again.

No, it’s just his hand, his lips still pressed firmly against yours while cloth slides over skin with a whisper of sound.  He lowers his body back to your and stars, the heat of his bare skin is almost more than you can stand.  His cock is heavy and hard against your flesh, hot and silky, and the sound you make then is embarrassing, weak, needy.  He runs his fingertips from your elbow to your wrist, and a wave of calm washes over you and you relax as his hand wraps around your wrist.  His hold is firm, but not tight, meant to restrain, loose enough that you could turn your hand if you wanted.  He rocks his hips against yours, and your back arches as you pray to gods you don’t believe in for him not to tease you too much or too long.

He hums quietly as he shifts lower, rolls his hips again so that the head of his penis comes into contact with your folds.  He probes gently, feels your center give beneath him, and then pushes himself forward until he’s half-buried in you.   You fight the shaky groan that hovers at the back of your throat, feel him withdraw slightly, and then he seats himself fully inside you and you can’t breathe anymore.

Nothing has ever felt more perfect.  Your muscles ripple around him, threatening to contract and drop you over the edge of no return even though he hasn’t even really moved yet.  You pull in one desperate breath, then another, fighting for control.  It’s only then that you get the sense that you’re not supposed to be in control, that he doesn’t want you to be in control.  Without knowing how you know it (and chalking it up to dream-logic), you know that he wants you to show him what you feel, to do so openly, to give him this simple, honest gift with the confidence that he will accept it.  He will accept it, hold it safe and secret, make this moment of weakness into a moment of strength.   _ It takes strength _ , he tells her,  _ to surrender completely _ .

“Please,” you whisper, already feeling so very out of your depth.  The surrender that felt so natural minutes ago is suddenly hard, you’re too self-conscious to achieve it again.  But you want to, want to give him this small thing he’s asked for, for reasons you couldn’t even begin to explain.  Is it the relief of letting someone else hold this piece of you?  The part of you that you pretend doesn’t exist?  You’ve always been self-driven, always secretly fantasized about putting yourself in someone else’s hands, never trusted anyone enough to actually do it, were too afraid to try.  Except now this strong stranger with his gentle hands asks you to do exactly that and you don’t know how he knows, but he knows, god, he knows it.  He shouldn’t know, but he does, and that’s more surreal than anything else in this dream.

When he moves, you choke on a gasp, and when he doesn’t stop the almost lazy rhythm of withdrawing and filling you again, you moan, long and low.  He kisses your cheekbone in lieu of speaking, as if to say,  _ Good girl _ , and such simple praise makes you feel as light as air.  It shouldn’t be possible to feel that way over something so small, but stars, it does, it absolutely does and you want him to say it again, maybe even out loud.  You spread your thighs a little further, arch your back to lift your ass up to him, and it feels like he slides in a little deeper than he did before.

You keen softly, panting and moaning through the orgasm rippling through you, washing over your like a hot ocean wave.  It’s sudden and unexpected, and he groans, his rhythm faltering for a moment.  It’s only a moment though, and then he’s fucking your through it with that controlled power, firm, but gentle.  You writhe under him, your quiet sounds half-panicked with overstimulation as he rides you into another orgasm, and then another.  He shifts his angle ever so slightly, and oh, it shouldn’t be able to become any more intense, but it does.

You forget that you wanted him to praise you, forget everything that’s not the press of his weight against your back, forget everything that’s not the steady, dual rhythms of his breathing and his thrusting.  He buries himself in your body again and again and you don’t resist, only press back against him, trying to offer yourself up.  He lets go of your wrist, wraps his hand under your jaw and turns your face up to his to kiss you.  It’s less of a kiss than the ones you shared previously, more just pressing your parted lips together and sharing breath as he breaks your down, grounds you in your body and makes you feel.

You climax again, and you have to break away from his mouth, let the mattress and the pillow support you as you start to cry under the overwhelming pleasure that is very quickly approaching discomfort.  It’s not that what he’s doing is painful, just that your body is too overloaded, too overworked, too oversensitive to handle much more.  It’s not your limit, not by a long shot, but you’ve gone beyond the usual.

_ No dream should be this intense _ , you manage to think, and then the waves crest again and you can’t hold onto the thought.  You’re drowning under him with no water in sight, and he is unrelenting as he continues snapping his hips forward.  You try to focus on breathing, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling again, and then exhaling on a desperate sound you’ve no name for.  There’s a sudden moan in your ear and it sends a thrill down your spine right to your overstimulated vagina wrapped so wetly around his cock.  His rhythm stutters, stops, starts again, and then he’s lying even more heavily on you than he was before.

It takes you a long, long moment to realize that he’s finished too, and you wish you could do something for him, but are too exhausted to move.  He breathes heavily against your temple, idly strokes your throat with his thumb. You realize distantly that not once did his grip on you tighten unnecessarily, that there won’t be any bruises come morning.  You’re almost disappointed by this, and then you remember that of course there won’t be: dreams generally don’t leave bruises.

You almost hope that you won’t wake up as you drift gently into a more complete darkness.

~

“If you like, you may visit me in my quarters,” Commander Ren says conversationally, the vocoder in his helmet flattening and deepening his voice, and you nearly drop the datapad stylus in your hand in shock.  You whip around to stare at him for the first time since you woke up tucked under his arm with a stickiness between your thighs that had forced you to realize that your dream might not have been a dream at all.  That alone had been mortifying, but remembering how willing and needy you’d been had made it that much more humiliating.

Belatedly, you realize that you never heard the stylus hit the ground and you turn to watch it floating in the air beside you.  You pluck it from the air cautiously, turning it over in your fingers as if searching for any potential unusual qualities it might have after being manipulated directly with the Force.  There’s nothing different about it that you can discern, but you’re grateful for any excuse that lets you look away from Kylo Ren at the moment.

“Thank you,” you answer after a too-long silence, self-consciously toying with the stylus, “But I think that would be… unwise, Commander.”  You’re embarrassed beyond belief and flustered as hell, your face hot enough that you’re probably blushing terribly.  You continue avoiding looking up at his face, or rather the visor of his helmet, flipping the stylus over your fingers again.

“Wise?” he asks, and you shift your weight, scrambling for an explanation as your fingers clench around the slim utensil in your hand.  It’s made of an alloy you can’t bend, though not for lack of trying considering the way your knuckles seem to have gone white.

“What happened… it was a mistake.  I shouldn’t have-” You stop, try to gather words to convey what you’re trying to say as if you’ve forgotten that he’s probably skimming your mind.  You haven’t, but the best you can come up with is, “I was too tired, and I’m sorry.”

You really mean:  _ I didn’t have a handle on what was real or not.  The difference between us in the hierarchy is too great.  It would be better if we just forgot it ever happened. _

And somewhere, beneath the embarrassment and the humiliation and the regret, there’s a disappointment that you have to give up something that felt so perfect.  There’s another disappointment too, a self-directed one, that you let yourself go so far that you couldn’t tell the difference between reality and a dream.

“The invitation still stands,” he responds, and you feel an overwhelming rush of hope and a sense of things that might have been that still could be.  It’s almost too much to resist on your own, and you find yourself looking at Kylo Ren and wanting very badly to agree immediately.  You could set a time right now, could throw yourself on whatever mercies it is that he’s decided to extend to you.  A shiver of eagerness shimmers up your spine, and then you swallow it all.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” you mumble, turning away under the pretext of needing your datapad.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says to your back before sweeping out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> I had/have some Kylo smut just hanging out in docs, so I thought maybe I would just polish it up into something acceptable for posting for the enjoyment of people who are not me.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr if you are so inclined [here](http://magpieminx.tumblr.com).
> 
> Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated!!


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